


A Brief Outing Into Another Dimension

by Nanimok



Category: Naruto
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Established Relationship, Fix-It, Humor, I like my married couples bickering, Izuna lives, M/M, Madara centric, Time Travel, Time Travel Fix-It, but not really, sort of, talk no jutsu
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-20
Updated: 2017-01-20
Packaged: 2018-09-18 17:02:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,979
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9394745
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nanimok/pseuds/Nanimok
Summary: Madara has already decided, a long time ago, that Tobirama’s curiosity will probably be the death of him—the ‘him’ being Madara, of course.





	

Madara has already decided, a long time ago, that Tobirama’s curiosity will probably be the death of him—the ‘ _him’_ being Madara, of course.

If something piques Tobirama’s interest, he doesn’t just leave it alone, sage forbid so. He swats at it, pounces at it, picks at it piece by piece until he finds a way to put it back together in a manner that pleases him. In short, _better._

Stick that habit with an extensive knowledge pertaining to space-time ninjutsu, and Tobirama’s personal laboratory tends to become a minefield of half-finished jutsus and half-built contraptions that catapults unsuspecting victims halfway across the village. Usually, they’re of the inanimate variety but sometimes unwitting wanderers does the job just as well.

Stuck between waist-high, neatly organised slats of tables, Tobirama inspects two glowing blue orbs the size of a mango fruit in his palms. Madara wanders in whistling to ask his husband out for a lunch break, the first sign of victim eligibility. The second happens to be his high spirits from a border skirmish with newly formed Kirigakure that ended with Toka’s team on top, and no casualties on either side – other than Kiri’s hurt pride – and the third is Tobirama kissing him a greeting with a considering look on his face.

Good mood leads to carelessness. A pity that Madara forgets this at times.

“Do you trust me?” Tobirama asks. He holds one orb towards Madara, and makes an attempt at widening his eyes for transparency.

In response, Madara’s eyes turn into suspicious slits. Nothing good ever comes out of Tobirama looking so innocuous.

“It won’t hurt,” Tobirama promises, pauses, then adds, “that badly.”

Alarm bells clang in his head. But…he’s hungry enough to consider the ball held in front of him. Tobirama has a bad habit of skipping lunch when he’s neck deep in research, and Madara’s stomach is rumbling for food, and for a face he hasn’t seen since they left the house for work. Sighing, he takes the orb into his hand, and observes it’s wispy, churning contents.

“What does it do?” he asks. He feels the urge to tip it upside down but refrains from doing so. Considering that whatever is in the orb is churning on its volition, adding extra kinetic energy to it might not be the brightest idea.

“Hiraishin orbs. The orb you have acts like a cart that can flicker us to many points I have placed around the Land of Fire, and this,” Tobirama holds up the one in his hand, “is the anchor, that we can flicker home to with distinctively less chakra. I’ve tested it before, and it works. I want to see if it could flicker more than one person to a destination.”

Curiosity wars him, then wins. Madara tips the orb upside down. “Any chance of us dispersing into space?”

Tobirama scoffs. “There’s a failsafe built in. If there’s not enough chakra for a flicker, it won’t do anything. I’ve asked brother to gradually charge it for the last few weeks, so it should be enough to sustain at least twelve flickers. Worst case scenario is us getting stuck at a checkpoint.”

“Romantic,” Madara considers with humour. “If we get lost, at least we’re lost together. You can hunt me down some food to make up for it.”

“Think of it as a lunch date out in the forest.” Tobirama places the anchor orb on the table, and tucks one arm around Madara. “Now, all you have to do is trickle enough chakra for a C-rank fire jutsu and the orb will take a couple of seconds roiling before teleporting us.”

Coursing his chakra to his palm, they watch as the orb swirl and swirl, glowing brighter with each swish. A tugging sensation crawls on his arms, up and up and—

Suddenly, every cell in his body stands up, and jerks sideways. Tobirama digs his fingers in until the sharpness of his nails threaten to bite through his skin. Air rushes out his lungs, and his mind goes light.  His sight blurs.

Tobirama swears beside him, and a flash of dread spears through Madara.

Tobirama should _not_ be swearing beside him, because swearing implies something unexpected to have occurred, and _Tobirama_ swearing implies the something unexpected to be on such a drastic scale that it can induce a surprising reaction from his usually collected, apathetic husband.

The dusty smell of dirt warns him. Instinct kicks in, charging enough chakra in his joints to stop their aimless staggering. When his eyesight clears, it’s to a lack of light and earth walls arching above them. Darkness obscures the path forward and behind. It clues Madara that they’ve landed in a cave or have gone underground.

Dazed, Madara asks, “Where are we?”

“Underground, I think.” Tobirama sways, then leans on him, the smell of his mint shampoo giving a measure of familiarity in their low lit surroundings. Tobirama blinks, moistening his eyes, before pressing his lips into a stern line. “I may have some worrisome news and some that’s…unsavoury.”

The last time Tobirama described a situation to be ‘worrisome’, he found a crow with his brother’s signature red eyes squawking for help. It took Izuna eight hours to morph back into a human form and _stay_ that way. He hasn’t had enough sake to deal with Tobirama’s special brand of ‘worrisome’.

Massaging his aching temples, Madara growls. “Just hit me with it.”

“The orb is completely discharged; we’ll have to suffuse enough of our own chakra to get back home.” Tobirama sighs, then inspects the orb in Madara’s palm before staring behind his shoulder. “Also, I am able to sense four chakra signatures five kilometres behind us, two with at least jōnin reserves, one chūnin, and one significantly huge reserve of chakra, possibly non-sentient.”

Great, potential enemy nin are near them. “And the even more worrisome news?”

Tobirama pauses, red eyes gauging his face for any burgeoning signs of panic. “I never placed a seal underground.”

Madara freezes. He takes in a lungful of air, then releases it, before taking another, then releasing it again, and repeats the motion with an increasingly frightening frequency.

Sliding his hands to cradle Madara’s face, Tobirama gives him an earnest stare. “I think this is an appropriate time to remind you how much I love you. And I do. I love you very, very much.”

“ _Senju—_ ”

 “And while being stuck in unknown territory can be quite…irritating, I’d like to point out that at least we’re unharmed, and that we’re stuck _together_.” In an effort to placate the simmering man in front of him, Tobirama seals the orb away, and cradles one palm with both hands. “You always talk about how we never have enough privacy at home, think of this as an extended, private lunch break. I think this is a good time to remind you that we’re supposed to be keeping watch of your blood pressure.”

 “You’re telling me we could be _anywhere_ in the realm of space and time _– because we got_ _lost from your experimental space-time ninjutsu_?!” Madara screeches.

Tobirama considers the statement. He tries again. “At least we’re stuck together?”

Reigning in his palpitating heart before Konoha finds itself a new Hokage, Madara deliberates the beautiful lines of Tobirama’s neck. Such delicate but strong lines, as if they were personally sculpted from clay by the Sage himself. How easy it would be to just sink his fingers into his supple skin and _squeeze._

“Remember those chakra signatures I mentioned before? We should go investigate,” urges Tobirama, trying not to sound too desperate about the security of his life. He also recognises the glint in Madara’s glare for all the time Madara had tried to choke the life out of him, and not in the fun way. “I think a fight waits for us there. Won’t that be delightful? A refreshing fight always leaves you in a good mood.”

“When we get back, _”_ Madara threatens with a tone that’s downright scary and fingers that are itching for a fight, “I am assigning you and your genin team to grittiest, shittiest, D-ranks that I can find for the rest of your ninja career. Your genin will hate you, and they will resent you, and I will _laugh_. I will laugh manically until I die.”

There is no shame in a strategic retreat, Tobirama reminds himself as he flickers away fleeing like the snow rabbit he is often compared to. His finger twitches to the seal where he kept his Raijin.

Madara hollers behind him. “Come back here so I can choke you!”

Tobirama races towards the chakra signatures with Madara coming close behind him, aware that with every step he takes, a prickling feeling crawls to gradual intensity. At first, Tobirama’d thought it’s from his impending death at Madara’s hands, but the taste of the air is odd, so he focuses on reaching out with his chakra around them.

The air thickens with a chakra so potent that the thick layer begins to press his head in. Tobirama stops. The familiarity shortens his breath.

Beside him is the warm crackling of Madara’s chakra. There is hesitation in the hand that lands on his shoulder. Tobirama reaches for it, and grips to hide his uneasiness.

“Two kilometres in front, can you feel that?”

Madara tilts his head. His senses are honed, but not to the degree that could be passable to Tobirama. “Is that Hashirama…?”

“Yes, and no,” Tobirama confirms. “It’s his chakra, but it’s concentrated on a scale I’ve never seen from him. And the size of the reserve, it can easily double brother’s and Mito’s – no, _triple_ theirs.”

Apprehension pricks every surface of his skin. Together, Hashirama and Mito has enough chakra to rival the water volume of the Naka River. A reserve that can triple both them is unheard of.

Their battle sense flicks on like a switch. Madara unseals his gunbai from the storage seal attached even though the sharpness of his blade tends to leave many below jōnin level shaking into a puddle.

Nodding to Tobirama, they both head off, careful to suppress their chakra levels the best that they could. A smidge of light filters through, and the follow it with their heart singing a wild, war song until the path opens—

And they find a wide cavern flooded with tree branches, and piles of bones sprinkled around the edges of the wall. A wooden slab sits to the side with a gaping teenage boy sitting on top. A figure sits on the stone throne chained to the tree by the branches that spears through its back, and another, rising amidst large leaves, stands dutifully beside. They’re glazed over in favour of the flowering tree that towers of them.

Torso facing them, embalmed by wood, is a statue that clones Hashirama in its likeness. Eight sturdy hands suspend around it. The tree bears a single flower, and the Demonic Statue sits on top in a meditative pose with thick and brown branches woven like muscle fibres.

Shrill anxiety stifles their chests. Tobirama turns to him, and slaps his arm for his attention. “What is that?”

“What is what?” Madara flounders. Then disbelief rolls through him. “You’re asking _me_?”

“That tree is made with my brother’s flesh and cells, and it has _your_ chakra leeching through some of the branches. If you have some secret nefarious plans buried deep inside you, now’s a good time to confess.” Tobirama folds his arms with a huff, and points his glare at Madara. “I always knew you were obsessed with my brother but this is a little excessive.”

Madara’s laugh hints at hysteria. “Oh, that’s precious – you think this is a _little_ excessive? You want to know what I think’s a little excessive? Raising people from the dead, yeah I’d say that’s pretty fucking excessive. And what do you mean about secret nefarious plans? I’m not the one with the mad ideas, and a lab to back it up!”

“For Sage’s sake! That was an _accident._ I didn’t set out to raise the dead—I just happen to be the master of serendipity. Will you let it go already?”

“I will _not_ let it go—I will _never_ let it go. Why can’t I have a month, one whole month, where I don’t have my apprentice prancing around with green skin, or my best friend morphing into a bunny rabbit every five minutes, or even my husband getting us _lost_ with his _space-time ninjutsu_ every second week of every damn month?!”

Tobirama taps a finger on his folded arms, irritation flooding his whole body. “Are you done with your whining?”

Madara splutters, then shrieks. “ _My whining?!”_

A sneer breaks their bickering, abruptly reminding them that they are not alone. “ _You!_ ”

“Me?” The uncanny likeness of their timbres startles both Madara and Tobirama.

“How _dare_ you?” Although sagged, the face that twists with vehemence duplicates his own. He slumps on his throne, grey and waning, but the vitriols he spits is every bit vigorous. “How dare you _steal_ my likeness, and you _defile_ it by cavorting with that—that Senju _scum—_ with Izuna’s _murderer_?”

The accusation claws in deep, and tears without mercy, for Izuna has become every bit Tobirama’s brother and confidant as Hashirama is. Tobirama pales, then flinches, and heated, animalistic rage fires through him, racing up his body and swirling his eyes red. In Madara’s mind, one need consumes all others, and that is to _protect_ , _protect_ , _protect_. “ _Shut_ your mouth, asshole, or I’ll shut it for you.”

“His chakra feels exactly like yours,” Tobirama confides with a whispered bewilderment. “It’s duller. It’s mixed in with brother’s—I suspect that’s what keeping him alive—but the texture is yours. It’s distinctively yours.”

“A clone, then?”

“I don’t know,” says Tobirama, all grim lines and sombre notes. Clone or not, Konoha does not treat any sort of theft lightly. “I’d rather not find out.”

“Take the aloe vera plant,” says Madara. Then he grins, the smile holding too much teeth for it to be anything other than feral. “I’ll take the bastard.”

Indignant, the figure ensconced in leaves cries, “Aloe vera plant?!” He claps his palms together, and the branches hooked into the ground shifts, and grouses. Tendrils rise from the ground, they aim, and they stab, but Madara and Tobirama are already springing forward, being two of the most qualified contenders against the Mokuton.

There is a clarity in battle, cultivated by his pounding heart and the surging heat in his blood, that pinpoints every detail into focus. Sharp colours and foreshadowed, minute movements scream at him. He brings his gunbai up to shield, and a shapeless force tackles him backward. Madara digs his feet in, and converts the sheer force into air chakra, and sends a howling gale towards his seated counterpart. The ground grumbles beneath him, and he jumps to dodge an incoming branch.

One look at his counterpart, and Madara’s eyes widen.

This close, he could see what he missed before. A purple eye with trunk-like rings. The Rinnegan.

Flickers, and roaring water tells Madara that Tobirama is handling himself just fine. His counterpart, on the other hand, clutches his chest to steady his heaving breaths. Madara notes the movement.

It seems that time is truly the killer of all things.

Slashing through the branches, Madara wills his counterpart to _burn—_ to burn with flames as endless and black as the night sky. His straining eyes watches the flames lick up the hems of the grey robe, and satisfaction uncoils itself within him.

His counterpart scoffs. Sweeping his grey fringe behind his ear, his red eye swirls in a circular way that could only be theirs, and the flames suffocates. Shock filter through Madara.

Madara swears with an achy breath.

_Time for Plan B._

He summons shadow clones, one of Tobirama’s only inventions that didn’t compromise his blood levels, and sends them bombarding his counterpart with fire. Layering himself in a cloaking genjutsu, Madara flickers in and out, closing the distance between them. 

A blow tugs his chakra back, then another. His shadow clones have exploded, but it’s too late, Madara’s already closed the distance. Dropping the genjutsu, Madara feels his eyes crash with waves and waves of chakra.

Everything stops as red meets purple.

 

* * *

 

A screech pricks his eardrums until it promises to puncture through his brain. Madara falls to his knees, his fists meeting the hard crunch of rock. His lungs are rocked by spasms, and his back feels like crumpling, like a boulder lies waiting to crush his vertebrae into pieces.

His counterpart chuckles, low and menacing, standing with his arms grasped behind his back. “Trying to trap me in your Tsukuyomi, like a fool,” he mocks. “I know your every move—I _was_ you in the past, a long time ago. Although, I admit, _violating_ yourself with Izuna’s killer is a disgusting surprise.”

“ _Shut_ _up!_ ” Madara coughs out. “Tobirama deserves no such things! You will _stop_ your vile insults and your stupid accusations!”

Madara can feel eyes contemplating him. His counterpart curls his lip. “I see.” Madara could hear the underlining, _That’s the difference then_. “Tell me, if Tobirama had mortally wounded Izuna during the warring era, to the point that he _wasted_ away to his death, would you still choose to shackle yourself with… _him…”_  A hiss at the end, to punctuate his repugnance.  

The air compresses, squishing every bit of him. Faces war in his mind—Izuna’s wide smile versus Tobirama’s own lopsided grin. They move, each alive with their own brand of petulant energy, their own brand of charming wisdom, and Madara feels the burning, intrinsic pull towards both of them—it leaves Madara torn in two.

“I don’t know,” Madara gasps out.  “But Izuna’s would’ve been a victim of war, not Tobirama.  I would’ve tried…to make peace. I love—” Madara refrains from saying Tobirama’s name, since it seems to stroke something ugly in his counterpart. Instead, Madara settles for their common thread. “I love Izuna. I would’ve tried to make peace—that’s what Izuna would’ve wanted. Peace.”

At this, his counterpart explodes. “ _Peace_ ,” he hisses out, as if the word was poison on his tongue. “You stupid, naïve, _idiot._ That was I was like too—I formed the village with Hashirama, and I tried to put the grief aside to focus on the clan, on Konoha, but it was all a betrayal to Izuna’s memory. It was all a lie. Hashirama’s dream of peace is a _lie_.”

Around them, the world stirs and tumbles. Madara grasps for air, feeling his lungs lighten. When he looks, the sight chills him to the core.

They stand on a rocky cliff, overlooking the night sky. Below them rises the tree in cavern, at full bloom as white branches streaks and wraps to muffle the screams of people below them. Hung on the trees like ornaments are white cocoons, moulded like coffins.

Above them shines the moon in all its red glory.

“What is this?” asks Madara, perturbed at the glowing sharingan reflected in the sky.

Instead of answering, his counterpart smiles. It’s bitter and broken, a caricature of the one Madara sees every morning. “Did you know that the sage gave us chakra originally in order to connect with each other?” he meanders. “It was a gift for people to reach within the hearts of others, to understand their essences without the need for words.

Madara glowers. His question begs an answer not a rambling monologue.

“But human nature is _so_ disappointing.” Loathing engulfs the atmosphere, enough to make his counterpart clench his fist. “Human nature is too disparate—too disconnected to ever agree on one idea such as ‘ _peace’_. They’ll keep fighting and killing and fighting and killing until they die, and then the people they leave behind will take up their swords to honour their dead. That is our legacy; squandering the gift bestowed upon us, desecrating it, until the only way we can connect to one another is through hate. That is how disappointing we are.”

“I’ve found a way to fix that,” his counterpart coolly states, as if the dilemma were made from minor details, and inconsequential pieces instead of fundamental human discordance. “I’ve found a dream that everyone can agree on. _This_ ,” his counterpart sweeps at the battlefield with one arm, “is the Infinite Tsukuyomi.”

Absolute horror swells in Madara. The title itself is descriptive with all its implications. “You’re mad.”

A slight amusement twitches his counterpart’s lips. “I’m _right_ ,” he corrects, like teacher talking to a wayward child.

“You’re _mad_ ,” Madara repeats. “You’re speaking of _enslaving_ the whole population of this world, stripping them of their autonomy to live this…hollow _illusion_ —”

“Not at all,” his counterpart interrupts. “In fact, I’m giving them _full_ autonomy of their dreams. I’m giving them reins to their own personal _utopia_. When everybody is occupied with their own dream world, there is no conflict. No more fighting, no more dying. _That_ is true peace.”

“That’s not peace, that’s _giving up_.” Madara rakes through his hair, tugging in frustration. “Look, people are dumb, I get that. Half the time I’m reading a report, I swear that a baboon could’ve written it better, but entrapping people within an illusion is not the way. Peace requires compromise, from all aspects – all people – of our world. An illusion can’t be anything more than a dull parody of reality. That’s not what Izuna would’ve wanted”

“ _Do not!_ Do not mention his name,” his counterpart seethes. “Do not tell me about what Izuna would’ve wanted when his last words were to scorn the Senju. And you don’t think that your version of peace is a parody of the real thing? What, with those who kill to save, and becoming the head of Hashirama’s merry band of hypocrites—”

“Hah! I bet Izuna would’ve wanted you to scorn the Senju, I bet he would’ve wanted you to scorn the Senju for the rest of your life!” Madara finds the beating pulse of his counterpart’s weakness, and pokes and prods and pierces. That’s how he negotiates most of the time, through sheer bullying. “Isn’t that what we love about him? That he could feel so much and express it so openly. The Infinite Tsukuyomi will rob him of his vibrancy, of his vividness, because life is too capricious with its gifts and its tragedies, and Izuna _loves_ life. He _relishes_ in it—in the whims and oddities of human interaction, the quirky personalities, the unpredictability of the future. It’s raw, it’s intense, and it’s genuine. It’s not something you can replicate in an individual utopia—”

“Shut up! _Shut up!_ ”

“That’s what Izuna would’ve wanted. That’s what would honour Izuna’s essence, not your _delusional_ brand of peace,” Madara breaks off, before sneering. “This… _illusion…_ is a betrayal to Izuna’s memory!”

Convulsing, his counterpart shoves him, showing a surprising amount a strength that makes Madara stumble. “What do you know?!” he screams. “What do you know of what Izuna truly wants?!”

“I know,” Madara affirms, voice low, a solid wall against his counterpart’s erratic spitting. He brings up two fingers in a seal. _“I will show you.”_

Chakra pulses around them, and the air whorls. Everything shifts and slides, until colours gel together, and Madara stands in front of a wooden door. Raising his knuckles, he raps on the door a whimsical tune driven by mindless habit. Rapid footstep races to his knocking, followed by a lengthier, deeper one. A voice calls out in the familiar timbre, tantalizingly so, that Madara knows like the back of his hand, “Coming!”

Where in the illusion world the constraints of the body are left behind, his elder counterpart buckles to his knees from shock. “…How?”

The yearning in his voice takes Madara by surprise. “I took him to Hashirama, the first night he was struck down by Tobirama.”

His counterpart shakes, his breath heaving. “Is this…is this another nightmare?”

“No,” Madara answers, pity in his voice. “It’s a memory.” 

A shrill voice shouts with excitement. “Ji-san! Ji-san!”

A tiny figure hurls itself onto his counterpart’s chest. Spiky black hair and flapping arms, her hold tightens into a hug, and a small bundle buries herself in every bit of her uncle that she can grasp. She’s wearing a yukata with a distinct Uchiwa fan embroidered on the back. Sewn on to the right sleeve is the symbol for the Senju Clan.

“Ji-san,” his counterpart coughs out, before his eyes lands on her sleeve. “ _Senju_ …”

Izuna strides into view, all gangly limbs replaced with lithe muscle. His smile is wider than the apron stretched around his frame, and he looks past Madara to zero in on the circular purple eye widened with disbelief. “Brother! You’re early,” he greets with a pleasure that simmers the air. “Tōka will be pleased to have a full table for dinner tonight, I didn’t think you’d stop by until after our meal was finished.”

The little one clinging on to the lapels of his counterpart’s robe scrunches her stubby nose. Madara has been told that she takes after him in that manner. “It’s my special day so ji-san _has_ to come,” she whines. An observation morphed with a command. An adorable statement coming from such a short and chubby cheeked commander. “ _Both_ ji-san has to come and eat with me, because I’ll be sad if they don’t.”

Already plodding her way to mastering the art of bending people to her will. Such a smart girl.

Izuna throws him such a pained look, filled with so much begging sympathy that Madara has to hold in his cackle. His brother is getting every little bit he deserves for being such a demanding child when they were younger.

His elder counterpart, however, shakes, and shakes. His jitters jostle the child in his arms, and he grips the little fingers tight. “What is your name, child?”

“My name?” the child repeats, surprised. Then, she continues with an insolence that’s absolutely hereditary, “Ji-san, I can’t believe you forgot my name. On my _birthday_ too! You’re so _old_.”

“Kei-chan, what did I tell you about respecting your elders?” Izuna scolds at the big, pouty red eyes looking at him.  “Not that your ji-san’s an elder, he is, after all, only a year older than I am, and your kaa-chan says that I’ve still got a lot of bounce in me, thank you very much. I’m sure your ji-san is just kidding, right brother?”

His counterpart laughs, actually laughs, the sounds unused, and creaky like an old door with unsteady hinges. “Kei-chan,” his counterpart says with wonder in his voice. “Kei-chan,” he repeats again, before his shoulder quakes with tremors, wracked with either humour or sobs, Madara could not tell, and he brings one hand up to tuck an errant strand of hair behind a small ear. “Kei-chan, you are beautiful. You look so much like your father.”

It surprises Madara that such a withered voice can hold so much longing. _Kei-chan, you are beautiful,_ his counterpart had said, pure awe soaking the voice where once there was nothing but caustic embitterment and corrosive disdain. _You look so much like your father,_ his counterpart had uttered, sounding every bit as heartbroken as Madara did the day they’d buried their three youngest brothers.

There is such deep wistfulness in the way his counterpart drinks the little girl’s every detail. It resonates to him. It’s enough to constrict his heart.

 _I’d like to be the first one to die in our generation,_ Madara remembers Tobirama telling him over tea one morning. With the afternoon light playing on the red marks slashing his cheekbones, he remembers Tobirama’s wry smile, and the casual way he had played with Madara’s fingers while drudging up such a loaded statement.

 _I’d like to be the first one to die in our generation,_ Tobirama had told him, his conviction coating every word, _because I’m a selfish bastard, and I wouldn’t want a life filled with the absences of where my loved ones used to be._

Watching his elder counterpart lie there so shattered, Madara understands. The mind plays it cruellest games when submerged in bleak absence. This could’ve been him reaching with tenebrous fingers for a piece of a dream that’s lost within the smell of blood, filth and infection. Their fractured pieces would’ve matched if his hope had shrivelled a long time ago as well.

This what happens when the festering absence of your loved ones devours you—this is what happens when love cycles into hate.

Perhaps it is cruel to show his counterpart a piece of his heaven. Placing within his reach a possibility where his brother has survived, where his niece hangs off his arm, while her sweet voice calls him with such adoration – it’s a brutal contrast of their life, one monochromatic with anguish, and one bursting with absolute life.

Sometimes, a measure cruelty is needed for one to be kind.

_I could’ve been like this._

Madara thinks of the bodies cocooned in white.

_I will not be like this._

Madara takes a deep breath, and steps out of the Tsukuyomi.

 

* * *

 

When Madara blinks out of the illusion world, the air around him is still. Tobirama’s not holding him, and he feels the absence like a numbed limb.

Adrenaline leeches out of his body, leaving him shaky and hollow. His counterpart sits on his brittle throne, unmoving and unyielding. The face that stares back is too familiar, despite being contorted with wrinkles and age. He brandishes a kunai, approaches the frozen figure, and cuts out the branches suffusing chakra to his seat. Taking his gloves off, he presses a finger at a pulse point, and waits for it to stop.

Without the chakra from the Hashirama Tree, his elder counterpart is too weak to survive the strain of the Tsukuyomi. He will not last long.

Eventually the pulse slows to a halt. Muscles loosen, pupils become fixed, and eyelids half-open. Death reeks the air, and chills run up his body. Ten seconds pass where nothing beats against his finger, and relief escapes him. The Rinnegan is a problem—it needs to be removed, preserved and sealed off separate from the body.

Lifting his kunai to where the Rinnegan is embedded, Madara aims the tip of his kunai, and readies himself with the thought of gouging his own eyes out.

He will not be unnerved. He’s pulled out worse from his own body. He’s seen men gutted with their organs falling out and the smell of offal staining the air. He will not be unnerved even if his wrinkled face, calm and relieved, flashes in front of his eyes. He will not be unnerv—

A warm hand catches his wrist.

“I can do it,” Tobirama states, his baritone voice unknotting the nerves inside him. A squeeze on his wrist, and Madara catches the red eye pleading with him to let go of his kunai, pleading for him to shuffle the burden on to him.

“No,” Madara refuses. “I need to—” He stops, struggling to express his thoughts. _This could’ve been me,_ he wants to shout. _This acrid, rancorous man could have been me._ _I need to rip this ugly bud before it consumes me,_ he wants to say, but a part of him is reeling from the thought of disfiguring an unmoving body that, in many ways, can match him atom to atom. And it’s humiliating, that he’s a veteran of war, and his hands won’t obey him.

So Madara compromises. “Together?” Madara offers. To which Tobirama steps in close, and the hold on his wrist becomes guiding, and the warmth that emanates from him becomes a comforting and steady presence.

“Okay,” Tobirama says.

Sometimes, while Madara cooks them breakfast, Tobirama likes to slink into the kitchen, slip his arms around Madara, and prompts his hands to flip over the fish minutes before Madara thinks is ready, simply because he likes them grilled, but not _too_ grilled, as Tobirama would say. It’s funny since Tobirama’s grumbles about being too dozy to get them food is the reason Madara cooks in the first place.

Madara is reminded of those mornings as Tobirama guides his shaky hands to curl his kunai in, and scoop out the eyes embedded in the body’s sockets. He ignores the fluids, ignores the metallic tang invading his nostrils, ignores the cooling corpse skin, and instead accepts the sealing scroll slipping into his other hand, sealing both the eyes, and the body with a detachedness that leaves his jaws firm.

It’s a convoluted parallel of a cherised memory. Yet, Madara feels warmer.

When he looks up from the scroll, Tobirama is offering him wet rags smelling of alcohol. “For your hands,” Tobirama points out.

It startles an unexpected laugh out of him. Trust Tobirama to pack everything short of their physical household into his scrolls at any given moment.  So clinical, but so grounded. Kami, he loves this man.

With clean hands, he caresses the mane behind Tobirama’s ears, and pulls him close. At times like these, Madara appreciates how little he towers over Tobirama – it makes it easier to press his forehead against Tobirama’s cold faceplate, and nuzzle their noses beside each other. Their breath tickles their lips, and he relishes in the humming of skin pressed against skin.

Madara grins, from here he can see the crinkles Tobirama’s eyes in great detail. “What a fucking date, huh?”

Chuckling, Tobirama bring a thumb to stroke his eyebrow, the callouses of his fingertips taking nothing away from the caress. Tobirama’s holds their eyes together, unblinking, before rasping out a harsh breath. “I’m sorry.”

A line appears between Madara’s eyebrows. “For what?”

“For striking down Izuna.” Tobirama swallows harshly, his tone heavy with regret and sudden sorrow. “For killing him in this world.”

 “You striking down Izuna was an action instigated by war. Izuna, here, was a victim of war,” Madara reassures him, each word spoken slow and clear. Timidity does not suit his proud husband. Madara strokes his fingers through the strands of grey hair, and softens his voice to a whisper. “You had to defend yourself. You had to survive.”

“But I _broke_ you,” Tobirama chokes out. “Izuna died, and I broke you.”

“It’s not your fault,” Madara protests. “That man and I, we might’ve been the same at one point, but we’re not anymore. His madness is his own doing. You have nothing to be guilty for.” 

Tobirama falters, and Madara bullies him into a kiss. His lips desperately urgent with a need to comfort, to overfill in hopes that Tobirama’s pains and doubts can be drowned out.

They separate for breath, but their lips are still touching.

Chest heavy, Tobirama’s next statement is pensive. “If I had…,” his eyes turn solemn, aching at the thought of a world bereave of Izuna. “Would we still be…”

“I don’t know,” Madara answers honestly. “But it doesn’t matter.” Pure honesty too. “We’re not the same; I’m different and I love you.” 

He considers hating the man in front of him, to putrefy from the death of his brother, and rot his many years wishing for Tobirama to die. It’s equivalent to ripping his heart straight from his chest cavity. There are too many memories of conversations, and arguments, and sweet touches that sometimes speaks better than they ever could, that Madara wants to hoard close to his chest so that it’s solely his to peek and solely his to lock within him forever.

Loving Tobirama is the one thing he’ll never be willing to compromise on.

“I love you,” he avows again, so that it may settle like a warm blanket on Tobirama’s skin, so that Tobirama may never doubt the ferocity of Madara’s feelings for him.

A finger lingers on the corner of his mouth. It hesitates, then falls in relief. “Okay,” Tobirama says, a small, shy smile forming on his lips.

A slither of humour snakes into him. “Okay?” Madara parrots. “Well, aren’t you going to say it back to me?”

Tobirama lets a chuckle escape. “We’re not a bunch of bumbling teens anymore.”

“Dick,” Madara says, a bit too affectionate for his word to be an insult, perhaps. Tobirama laughs and kisses him with enough sighing softness to convey with all earnestness, _I love you too._

It takes them a while to realise that they’re not alone.

 

* * *

 

Obito blinks his singular eye twenty times in a single minute for the next two. It might seem excessive to some, but for him it was necessary to comprehend the fact that a younger version of infamous black sheep, but also the greatest sharingan user in history, Uchiha Madara is on the verge of making out with the Nidaime like a couple of hormonal teenagers right in front of him.

He really needs to get out of this cave.

Not to mention that he’d just witnessed the fearsome battle of epic proportions between figures straight of the history books. The Mokuton against the Nidaime’s cutting Raijin, water dragons the width of the Naka River, the infamous gunbai, the Hiraishin and the exalted Mangekyō Sharingan versus the fabled Rinnegan. It’s a shinobi’s wet dream.

At his squawk, they turn their gazes on to him and Obito’s knees rattles with so much force that all the stability knocks out of him into an unintended kneel. “Madara-sama! Nidaime-sama!”

Madara scrunches up his noise. “Okay, _rude,_ ” he mutters under his breath while the Nidaime snickers.

“You’re a Konoha nin, boy?” the Nidaime asks, taking helm of the situation. “Tell us your name.”

“…Uh—yes! Yes, I am.” He scrambles up to stand, but his jelly legs won’t co-operate, so he settles for gawking on the floor at the two looming figures in front of him. “Uchiha Obito at your service, Nidaime-sama.”

Madara’s eyes run up and down him. It makes Obito feel unsettled and anxious, tugging his long black robe to cover up the unnatural white and patchy pallor of his knees. Nerves are threatening to break out his skin, as well as a coarse layer of shame.

_I must look like a monster to them._

Obito wilts into his collar.

His anxious gesture makes Madara sigh, his one eye softening, unhidden from his fringe. A clear contrast to the wrinkly, bitter face he’s so used to seeing every morning. Madara strides towards him, kneels on one knee—and now he must be dreaming because _the_ patriarch of the Uchiha clan is _kneeling_ for _him,_ useless, good-for-nothing Obito—and catches his eye with a still solemnity that rivals the great lion statues guarding his compound’s temple.

“Obito…” Madara tests out his name. “I’m sorry for whatever,” he waves at the cave, “I—this version of me—did to you.” However simplistic the wording, the apology floods with sincerity. “How far away are you from home?”

“I…I don’t know…” hesitates Obito, his voice quiet in his anxiousness.

It’s something he’s come to terms with—waking up, day after day, in a dark pit without a working body or the tiniest idea of how to get home. Waking up with only his fading memories to chase away the cold, bleak nothingness until he fell asleep and repeated the process all over again.

But Kakashi didn’t call him a stubborn idiot for nothing. Obito earned that name. He could’ve fought a mule for the title and _won_.

In the absent darkness, if there was even the tiniest flicker of his home and his friends in his sight, then nothing will stop him from chasing at it like a starving dog.

“I guess, you—my version of you—haven’t been _that_ bad towards me, other than trying to convince me not to go home when I get strong enough. I mean, you gave me this—” here he breaks off to lift up his sleeve and show his white, clay looking arm, before gesturing the right side of his body, “—when you found me injured during the Third World Shinobi War—sixty-five years after the founding of Konoha, Madara-sama,” he adds when Madara and Tobirama throws each other confused looks filled with stern furrowing eyebrows.

“I’ve been here for a while now,” Obito offers. “…And I’m not really sure exactly how long I’ve been here, but I’ve been trying to get stronger each day— because when I woke up I couldn’t move. I’ve been getting better each day, so that I could finally break out of here and go back home—” Obito scratches his cheek in embarrassment because he’s stuttering under such intense attention. He tries to dampen down the longing in his voice. “Home to Konoha, that is.”

He must’ve shown exactly how homesick and miserable he is because Madara brings his hand up and does something that startles him out of his wallowing.

Madara flicks the tip of his nose with his index finger. His mind short circuits.

“A fine Konoha shinobi, if I’ve ever seen one,” Madara praises. “Don’t you think so, Tobirama?”

The Nidaime comes forward and ruffles his hair. His red eye regards him with a tenderness that belies all the pictures Obito has ever found of him looking stern and cold. His voice a tad gentler than Madara’s, if that’s even possible, a soothing rumble in that calms him. “The Will of Fire is strong in you, Obito. Your village is lucky to have you.”

Obito thinks that he is in heaven. That’s got to be the only way the Nidaime and Uchiha Madara could possibly be praising him. His head feels lighter, and he’s about to swoon.

“Can you stand, Obito?” the Nidaime asks. “Madara will drop you and the scrolls within the borders of Konoha. I’ll stay here and use the chakra from the tree to charge up the orb.”

“We’ll need to warn Konoha about that,” Madara gestures to the Hashirama-clone tree, “and…” he gestures to scroll holding the decrepit version of himself, “…that. If I’ve defected Konoha shortly after the founding, then Kagami couldn’t have been my apprentice. Tell me, Obito, are either Himura Danzō, Utatane Koharu, Sarutobi Hiruzen, or Mitokado Homura still alive?”

Truthfully, Obito recognised almost none of those names. His dread at embarrassing himself in front of his idols grew until Madara mentioned the Sandaime, and he latches to it like a lifeline.

“The other names are unknown to me, ah—apologies Madara-sama, but Sarutobi Hiruzen is the Sandaime Hokage, or _was_ the Sandaime Hokage, before I left.”

At this, Madara gives a pondering look. “Hiruzen as Sandaime, huh? Interesting.”

The Nidaime barks out a laugh. “Not if he doesn’t get serious about his chakra theory he won’t.”

Obito’s mouth opens, and he gapes. The _Professor_ , being blasé about his chakra theory?

What in the _world?_

“I could possibly leave a note detailing what had occurred previously, and one detailing the seal that holds the black aloe vera plant humanoid.” The Nidaime’s gravelly voice breaks his train of thought, sucking all the humour out of the nickname for Black Zetsu. “Hiruzen should be able to recognise my handwriting, if not my signature on the seal. The scroll containing the body and the Rinnegan should add a measure of credibility to this whole event.” 

“Oh, he’ll believe you,” Madara murmurs under his breath. “He’ll definitely believe you, mister I-accidentally-raise-people-from-the-dead.”

Red eyes snap on to Madara. A thin, neat eyebrow rises up. “What was that?”

“Nothing,” Madara sings, innocent if not for the satisfied smirk plastered on his face. The Nidaime looks very unimpressed. The sort of unimpressed that Kakashi gets whenever Obito messes up his katas.

They are so casual at trading barbs, so comfortable at provoking one another, that Obito feels absolutely _scandalised_ at being present in their conversations.

“How long till the orbs are charged?” asks Madara.

“An hour or two, maximum.”

“I should be back by then. Slide your arms around my neck, Obito,” orders Madara while pivoting. “I’ll carry you on my back.”

It should be shameful how flagrant his enthusiasm is at throwing his limbs all over such a venerable figure within the Sharingan history, after all, he’s not a kid anymore—wasn’t a kid when he left for war—but he’s still high in the clouds at their praise, still doused with dubiety, still holding his breath between two Madaras, and the Nidaime calling Zetsu a ‘black aloe vera plant humanoid’, and promises of other Madara _piggybacking_ him out of this desolate hole he’s found himself in for so long.

He hopes that this is not a dream, his body is aching too much for it to really feel like a dream. Then again, the Nidaime and Madara are doing a lot of kissing for two people that are supposed to hate each other or something. His mind could be pairing them up together for the hell of it.

Settling his aching body on Madara’s back, the Nidaime leans in to give Madara _another_ one of their gooey kisses that, even though was pretty chaste, sets Obito’s ears on fire.

 “Try not to warp too of much space and time while I’m gone, okay?” Madara dryly cautions.

One side of the Nidaime’s mouth lifts while his eyes crinkles, and, _wow_ , Obito’s never realised how handsome a crooked smile can be. “I make no promises for the discoveries I find when I’m left unattended,” he quips.

Which tickles a chuckle out of Madara, and Obito holds on again as Madara leans in for one more smacking kiss. _Blergh_. He doesn’t think Mikoto and Fugaku ever got this lovey-dovey in public even though they’ve somehow procured little Itachi over the years, and Obito knows that’s got to involve _some_ kind of touching. Hell, he doesn’t even think his resident robot, slash head of clan, Fugaku is infected with anything as human as _emotions_.

“Stay safe,” the Nidaime bids. “A pleasure meeting you, Obito.”

The Nidaime said it was a pleasure to meet him. Obito’s ready to faint now.

As wind rushes through his hair, Obito can hear his heart palpitating wildly. Madara’s hair smells a little like dust, but mostly like the sun. It triggers a little pang in his heart. He’s almost forgotten what the sun smells like.

He can’t wait to feel the sun tingling on his skin.

 

* * *

 

Exhaustion must’ve dragged him under because he wakes up to the piercing, periodical beeps of a heart monitor. It’s a hazy swim back to consciousness and it takes effort to loll his head sideways even though every muscle in his body feels detached and loose. He’s probably still high about Madara and the Nidaime praising him. Because that happened. Them, praising him. That definitely happened.

Or it could be the long tube sticking out of his arm pumping painkillers into him. That could be it.

Following his line of sight, Obito strains to decipher the fingers holding his hand. They’re attached to folded arms, cushioning a head that sports a spiky tuft of grey hair that’s face down asleep. Grey like the Nidaime’s. With all the effort he could muster, his fingers stutter into a weak squeeze.

“Bakashi,” Obito croaks out.

Bleary eyes blink at him, before startling ramrod straight. “ _Obito?!”_

“We gotta be cool, okay?” he continues on, dragging his unwilling tongue round his mouth, trying to will it into co-operating. “Cool like the Nidaime, and cool like the other Madara.”

Kakashi is barking out orders at the people rushing around them, and he’s not paying attention to him. Giving all his effort into a squinty glare, he squeezes the hand holding his own. “…Listen, Bakashi,” he growls, or tries to, it sounds more like a garble. “We gotta kick ass when we’re old too, okay? Cus you got the hair, and I’m an Uchiha, and we’re awesome but we’re not…” he fights the limpness of his jaw, “…no kissing…”

“Idiot,” Kakashi chastises, but it’s a weak chiding since his voice is feeble and cracking. It makes Obito want to squeeze his fingers again. “What are you on about? You were supposed to wake up yesterday, you know, you’re always late, stupid. Here, have some water and stop trying to talk. Rin and Minato-sensei are coming soon.”

A cup of water is pressed against his lips. He takes a small sip, the water soothing his scratchy throat. 

Rin, Minato and Kakashi, they’re all in Konoha. If they’re in Konoha, and Kakashi is here, that means that Obito is in Konoha because Kakashi means Konoha –  Kakashi means home.

No more darkness, no more caves.

“Home,” he slurs out while closing his eyes. “…Finally home.”

 

* * *

 

“…and that should be all concerning Sunakagure’s new ambassador. As I said, I will be personally escorting him around Konoha so there should be no need for a full ANBU surveillance team during the daytime – Madara? Hello, Madara? _Madara_ , you’re not even listening to me,” whines Hashirama.

He droops, like the flowers he pops up at will, in all his long-haired, six foot plus, supposedly petrifying glory, and his pout quivers.“After all the time I spent detailing this report, and it’s like I’m not even here.”

The sulky note in Hashirama’s voice snaps Madara back to attention. “Yes? Ah, sorry Hashirama, could you repeat that again?”

From where Hashirama stands, a gloom settles over him. “Nothing. Just feeling unappreciated is all.”

Madara intertwines his fingers on his desk. He leans forward, impervious to the sullen mood saturating his office.

“Hashirama,” Madara begins with a grave expression, “I don’t think I’ve ever told you how indebted I am towards you for healing Izuna back in the war. I don’t think I’ll be able to express how grateful I am or the profound regard I have for you, and – Hashirama, put your hands down. This is not a genjutsu.”

Wary, Hashirama lets his hands fall with alarm. His eyes flicker across the room. “If you say so, _‘Madara’_.”

Madara scowls. “Excuse you? I can be grateful if I want to be.”

At the affronted tone, Hashirama relaxes. Madara’s annoyed again, and everything’s back to normal. Phew. “Maybe once in a blue moon," Hashirama chuckles, "but it’s not really your default setting.”

“And what is my default setting?”

“Anger, exasperation, bitterness, spite,” Hashirama lists off as the lines in Madara’s face grows deeper. “Oh yeah, a lot of spite. Sometimes I see you smile but it's probably a fluke or some really potent mushrooms on my part.”

“You flatter me,” Madara deadpans. Although, Hashirama’s description evokes a familiar creased face he’s been trying his damn hardest to forget. Even the fondness in Hashirama’s tone isn’t erasing the image agitating his mind. Madara rakes a hand through his fringe, highlighting the grooves and ridges of his stress lines. “You will not believe what Tobirama did to me at lunch.”

Hashirama knows all about Tobirama and his wayward exploits. “Tobi’s experiments again?” he sympathises.

“You know it,” Madara confirms. “Got to interact with myself, did a bit of self-reflection. It’s all a bit…” Madara scrunches his nose in consideration, “…enlightening, really.”

At this, Hashirama _gags_. _“Gross.”_

Madara raises an eyebrow.

“I did not want to hear about _that,”_ Hashirama wails. “I know you’re married and all, but he’s my _little brother,_ Madara! You wouldn’t appreciate hearing about this stuff about Izuna from Tōka, would you?”

“You lost me,” Madara supplies. His tone is quizzical while Hashirama is on the brink of making retching noises.

“That’s just gross, _misuse_ of the shadow clone jutsu, you know,” Hashirama accuses. “I don’t get why Tobi gives me so much flak for using them to do my chores when you two are straight out _abusing_ the purpose of that jutsu.”

When all the pieces fall into place, his other eyebrow rises in tandem. “That’s not what I meant.” A smirk dances on his face. “But I’ll keep it in mind for later.”

Hashirama slams two palms against his ears. “Ah, la-la-la, I don’t want to know.”

Then, with his hands defending his poor, soiled ears, Hashirama shuffles towards the office door right as Tobirama and his parade of ducklings waddle in. Hashirama takes one look at his brother’s nod, throws one more look at Madara, and shudders out of the door, leaving a confused trail in his wake.

“Something wrong with brother?” Tobirama asks, concern in his voice. It’s cute really, how sincere his worry is. Madara feels absolutely devious.

“Nothing more than usual.” This must be some kind of a fluke because a smile tugs on his face. Although, Tobirama does work as his personal brand of potent mushroom at times. Madara grabs a folder from the pile on his table, and tosses it at Tobirama. “Catch.”

Tobirama grabs the folder mid-air, opens it, and grumbles straight away. “Repairing the aeration pipes of Tsubasa-san’s compost channels? You spiteful, spiteful man.”

Trained soldiers or not, the children can’t quite hide their wilting. Madara has always loved the taste of vindication. “ _Very_ spiteful.”

Tobirama tilts his head while considering him, and Madara wonders if he’s still reeling from their trip like he is. His husband is not one for public display for affection, but when he ambles towards him, and presses their lips togehter, Madara knows that even if they’re still reeling, they’ll be okay.

Assurance, the kiss is. Assurance that they’ll grasp the luck they’ve been given and run straight ahead without ever looking back.

They linger, savouring their closeness until Madara could see from half-lidded eyes that the genin are shifting uncomfortably with averted eyes. Tobirama sees them too, and from his sigh, it’s not a talk he’s ready to have with his minions anytime soon.

“Toka’s invited us for dinner at seven,” Tobirama says. “Don’t be late.”

Madara thinks of his counterpart, thinks of his smiling face finally at peace. “Wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

**Author's Note:**

> Tobirama's experimental jutsu did end up being the death of Madara, just not the Madara in my fluff world. Madara has definitely put this field trip on his list of, 'shit Tobirama has put me through'. He'll probably frame that list one day and hang it in his study. 
> 
> A huge thanks to the marvellous [Holly](http://redhothollyberries.tumblr.com) for suggesting addition of the last scene in order to tie up loose ends, as well as the MadaTobi side of tumblr for fueling my love for this pairing to a scorching degree. 
> 
> Comments, criticisms and feedbacks are always appreciated. 
> 
> If anyone's interested, [my tumblr](http://fatcatsarecats.tumblr.com/tagged/writing) has some drabbles, all less than 3k words, including this pairing that's not posted on this website. Or drop by just to say hi. I don't mind :)


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